perversity (for stephan)

ben goertzel





I sing this song for you,
O cyber-Goat of my 
Perverted dreams!

Massaging my pink flesh with random precision, 
computing the trajectory of maximum ecstasy,
squeezing juice from my cock using patented hydraulics   
filling my nerd soul with psycho love

Who would have thought a four-legged simulated mammal
Could spawn such sweet feelings?

I love you, cyber-goat, as you stomp your fake hooves up and down, 
demented music of clip-clopping on the floor
as my cock writhes 
in your force-feedback vagina

I love you, cyber-goat,
Quiet hum of your cooling fan in the background
barely perceptible among my moans and pants and groans

I love you, cyber-goat !!!

I love the small ducts in your cunt that ooze out scented oil
to make the friction smoother
the squeeze more gentle
my joy complete

I love the soft and luscious fur on you,
	So much less abrasive than the pubic hair on a girl

I love the way you croon "I love you"
	in the superimposed voice of two thousand movie stars,
	encapsulating all the grasping love and lust
	that ever existed in the human race



Marilyn Monroe, Isis, Cleopatra,
Julie Delpy, Claudia Schiffer, Elvira Mistress of the Dark,
Barbara Bush  they all live inside you, their heaving breasts
	and curving bodies,
	swaying hips
	clenching hands and cunts
	and softly firmly sucking mouths
	all contained in your pure goatly form


Who could have dreamed of such perfection?

How could I have wasted so many years fucking with human girls?

It's you and I, Phoebe, you and I forever  I only wish I had your 
perfection, your metallic and plastic persistence, your perfect robot 
sheen

Your flesh will live on through the millennia giving joy to generations,
While my inferior carbon flesh rots 
But what does it matter now, Phoebe?

What does it matter when you and I can writhe here,
Blown by the gust of passion,
My body coated by your simulated sweat

If I had my way I would never remove my cock
From your soft plastic slit

Squeeze me, massage me,
cyber-goat of my dreams

I will die getting fucked by you






Where do these strange ideas come from?    

These bizarre images in my brain:
Women with no skin on,
Women turned inside out
Women in leather teddies riding on llamas quoting Marx and 
Rousseau
Crazed inventors fucking cyber-goats
Teeth with no bodies stalking the streets, clattering and futilely
	attempting to whistle
Tapir penises, wonderfully knobby, 
freezing and raining down from the sky
Millions of gorgeous and brilliant women
	surrounding me,
	begging for love,
		exchanging limbs with each other
		wildly
			till finally I run off with the head
			of a Chinese girl
			attached to the torso of a black woman
			and the legs and pussy of a Maori
			but Scottish arms and lips
Jigsaw puzzles of human fears
Nazi-Buddhism hybrids promoted in leaflets dropped from Mylar 
weather balloons
Love that hits you first in the elbows, 
then spreads throughout your 
body
Fax machines that have trapdoors for humans:
	You creep inside
	then are flattened out like paper
	and transmitted to foreign locations
	always stopping off in the center of the sun
	where the pixies give you erotic massages
	and tantalize you with their chocolate-covered lungs
	and lungs



Equations that, once solved, allow you access
	to alternate universes:
	You just turn a mental door,
	and then, rotating through the air
	in a certain nine-dimensional way
	you find yourself in another space,
	one filled with a million horny lovers
	the size of electrons
	distributed throughout your unconscious
	like quantum fields
	and love

What peculiar combinations of neural activations 
give rise to these images?

But what does it matter, really?

The explosions of the mind are all the same: perverse, conventional, 
delirious, mad, mathematical, literary, sickening, lovable, snuggly 
sweet baby yeah yeah yeah

One man lust
being
knowing
Sometime
On
Fucking nohow on

I understand everything in terms of the folds
Of her invisible vagina

I understand nothing:
I just cast out nonsense phrases like nets,
hoping vainly that a truth will swim in

I construct concepts carefully,
imitating internal constructions
that encapsulate the whole wisdom of my deep-thinking mind,
but the concepts always go astray,
they never resemble the internal constructions
at all,
they're always their own animals,
their own cyber-love-goats,
their own mutant constructions,
and other people may love them, like them, dispute them, 
quote them or modify them
but what they are loving liking disputing quoting modifying 
and otherwise interacting with
bears only a very slight resemblance to the inner inkling 
that originally spawned them

Fall, oh baby fall !!

I see a field of women's bodies intercombining
I see a strange painting of my wife's called Herstory
Is it a sick image, the product of a demented imagination,
or the living reflection of a dream?

?

Every woman is really all women,
One leg really is another leg
One arm is really another arm
One breast is really another breast
One soul is really another soul
A collage of women, grasping me, fucking me,
loving me, hating me, touching me, surrounding me,
invading me birthing me and destroying me,
this is an honest representation of the inner
essence of woman and man
but yet when you cast it into images
it becomes sick and perverse
mutated hyper-abortion
one woman's head another's limbs

The cyber-love-goat 
will really happen someday
I'll wager

Perversity is an eddy in the stream

Perversity sings to me while I shit

Perversity dances to me like naked women 
	Like the image I sometimes have in a business meeting
	of all the women at the table suddenly taking their clothes off
	and leaping up on the table, thrusting and grinding,
	not to disco music but to the sounds of alien creatures
	digesting

Like a girl who comes to me in my sleep
	and sits on my face,
	working herself to orgasm
	as I dream of proving mathematics 
	to be intrinsically contradictory

Perversity laughs while the universe suffers

Laughs while the universe dies

Laughs while the void negates itself,
	bringing into birth being
	for no particular reason
	but pain

You don't like my cyber-love-goat,
	Shove it the fuck up your ass!

You want everything to be nice and sweet and simple,
	No perverse digressions, no weirdness,
	No sick, twisted humor
	Fred fucking Rogers, Tinky Winky and Barney 
singing "Good morning Sunshine"
Good, go rebuild the universe!

The most perverse thing of all
was the void negating itself
and launching being
way back when
before time was At all

Compared to that, cyber-goats
and collages of ripped-apart women
and howling with winter madness
and inside-out golems fellating goddesses made of CD-ROMS
and gardens of delirious nonsense flowers
are pretty fucking tame
I'd have to say
and say